


Darkness, Misery, and Mr Norrell

by Ilthit



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Post-Canon, Self-Indulgent, Sleepwalking, Sleepy Cuddles, Tumblr Prompt, Wordcount: 500-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 07:44:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4427090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit/pseuds/Ilthit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a silly little ficlet in response to a prompt from tootsiemuppet (Strange/Norrell, "don't ever do that again") and heavily influenced by bookhobbit's <a href="http://bookhobbit.tumblr.com/post/124893334409/jonathan-strange-and-mr-norrell-sleep-headcanons">sleeping headcanons</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darkness, Misery, and Mr Norrell

Mr Norrell followed his lamp into his darkened bedroom at Hurtfew Abbey and set it down by the bed. He undressed in the dark, as he had dressed in the dark some hours ago. It may have been a day, or two days - in the darkness he had no way of telling. He wrapped himself in his night-dress with an additional dressing-gown and a cap, making haste before the chill could work its way up through the soles of his feet to his bones.

The hot water bottle wrapped in leathers was already waiting for him between the sheets. Mr Norrell had placed it there himself. They had no servant at the moment, though he and Strange had discussed the possibility before and might yet employ some lost Christian or minor resident of Faerie to cook and clean for them. In all other respects it was the same ritual he had employed ever since he had grown out of bedtime stories. 

Mr Norrell had just settled the hot water bottle at his feet and sat up for some light reading (an old copy of the _Famulus_ ) when Mr Strange burst in through the door. Mr Norrell was so startled as to almost kick over his foot-warmer. Strange had that look of happy discovery he sometimes wore when the secrets of a particularly obscure passage had begun to unravel itself to his satisfaction, but his eyes were glassy and gazed directly at open air.

Any number of highly disagreeable notions evaporated from Mr Norrell’s mind. This was not an invasion by wood-spirits or messengers from fairy kings. Strange had not stumbled upon a riddle that Norrell had not yet answered to his own satisfaction. There was no relapse into Mrs Delgado’s bottled madness. He had seen this look often enough and all it meant was that Jonathan Strange was sleepwalking.

“A most extraordinary thing,” said Strange happily. “An egg _inside_ a pineapple! Did you ever hear of such a thing, my love?”

“Mr Strange,” said Mr Norrell, who wished (and not for the first time) that Childermass had been there to take Strange gently by the arm and lead him to his own bed-chamber. 

Strange undid his necktie and threw it over a chair, where Mr Norrell’s own clothes already lay neatly folded. “It must be only one in a million, unless some mischievous magic made it happen. The mechanics of such a thing–” Strange appeared confused. “Well, I’m sure there is some natural explanation, though as you know, natural explanations are not my teapot.”

“Mr Strange, please, you are asleep. I am not your wife.”

Strange paused with his waistcoat in his hand and looked straight at Mr Norrell among his many blankets and pillows. “No, of course not. Arabella is a moss-oak.”

Mr Norrell regarded Strange warily. 

“I must have left my teapot with the pineapples. Excuse me, sir.” Giving a little bow, Strange turned on his heel and went into the hallway, calling for Lucas. Mr Norrell breathed a sigh of relief. He read another couple of paragraphs of the article, but soon paused to mutter a spell of protection lest Strange knock his head on a low beam or fall down a staircase.

With the lamp blown out, the darkness was complete. Mr Norrell’s bed-chamber had no windows, so that not even magical starlight could illuminate it. He had always preferred it that way; bright lights gave him a headache, and he was sufficiently at peace with the Raven King that the king’s shadows did not trouble him. He was asleep within minutes.

The shroud of sleep, once settled, shreds slowly. Mr Norrell was aware of his mattress bouncing and a cool breeze hitting his neck before he was aware of these things belonging to the waking world. Even then he did not fully wake up when Strange wrapped himself up against his back and hugged him to himself - something no-one had ever done to Mr Norrell in his living memory. It was the mortification of embarrassment that returned him to himself. “Mr Strange,” he muttered, shoving his elbow into Strange’s chest, “your breath smells of cheese, you are asleep in the wrong bed, and I am _not_ your wife!”

Strange’s body jerked and stiffened and he raised himself up on one elbow. “Mr Norrell.”

Norrell reached for the lamp at the bedside table and scrambled for matches. When it was lit, the two magicians regarded each other, each with an air of irritation. “Do you not know you should never wake a magician while he is dreaming?” accused Strange.

“That is an old wives’ tale,” snapped Mr Norrell, “and furthermore I believe the situation warranted it.”

“Well, don’t ever do it again,” said Strange and promptly fell back to sleep. 

After a few moments - and what agonies those moments may have contained is not for us to say - Mr Norrell blew out the lamp.


End file.
